


wrecking ball

by fizzjam



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Age Difference, Blind Reader, F/M, Size Difference, Size Kink, Vaginal Sex, idk how to tag tho, roadhog got a massive dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 16:02:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11421381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fizzjam/pseuds/fizzjam
Summary: roadhog's ghost finally catches up with him.





	wrecking ball

**Author's Note:**

> shout out to jim sterling for being no. 1 roadhog fanboy
> 
> idk what to say about this it's really self-indulgent and bad sorry

Sometimes when Roadhog closes his eyes, he remembers so vividly your face that it almost transcends time and memory. You’d showed up to an ALF meeting one day, this tiny, wretched little thing, orphaned by omnics, eager to help, and he’d thought that you’d be more useful as animal feed than an ALF member, but you were young and eager, and small enough to fit into places they’d previously been unable to access. It depends on the day whether he wishes they’d turned you away, or is grateful to have met you.

But it always leaves him bitter. Sleep never comes easy; dreams revolve around you and he wakes up considerably angrier than he was when he went to sleep. When it all is said and done, when the chips fell, you were still a fucking child, full of that useless _youthful optimism_ and hope and unwilling to do the things that needed to be done. That’s what gets him the most: you were always that weak child, and he fell for it, hook, line, and sinker, and _continues_ to fall for it.

He misses you. And he can never tell if he hates you for it or if he hates himself for it.

\--

You waltz in, little more than a child, the kind of thin borne of necessity; to say that the outback is rife with urchins like you is an understatement. It’s all farms and aboriginals, and _omnics_ , thanks to the weak government's appeasement operation, but that’s what they’re here to stop, what you’re apparently here to help stop, and all eyes are on you as you approach the floor, so painfully out of place among grown, grizzled men and women looking to take back their homeland.

“This is Australian Liberation Front, right?” you ask, in the kind of voice he expects from a child puffing her chest, pretending to be a big girl. “I want to join. Omnics destroyed my family farm, and I’m the only one left-- I owe it to my folks to help you!”

At first, you’re laughed right back out the door, but much to everyone’s surprise and displeasure, you keep coming back, keep flapping those gums of yours, until finally the big boss decides you might have what it takes after all. Mako is upset at first, refusing to play babysitter just because some kid’s trying to pull up her bootstraps and be a big girl, but their first large-scale operation hinges on having someone small enough to crawl inside one of the large omnic-owned trucks undetected. Even better, you’re eager to be useful; it’s a perfect storm that can turn the tides of the ALF’s efforts, so for the time being, Mako shuts up and lets you tag along.

In hindsight, he regrets it. You were a child. It was war. You weren’t ready.

\--

“Didja hear, big fella?” Junkrat shoves his mouth full of dry cereal and Lucky Charms marshmallows stick to the edges of his mouth. “There’s a new lady roamin’ the halls. Bet there’s a new recruit!”

There have been a lot of those lately. Roadhog grunts, more to acknowledge that he’s listening, because Junkrat has the incredibly annoying habit of repeating himself when he doesn’t get a response. “D’ya think she’s cute? Heard McCree talkin’ about her.” Junkrat gets in close, and Roadhog catches the wafting scent of sugar cereal and day drinking. “She’s blind, too! Ain’t that interesting. Betcha she’s some kinda… file clerk. Why else would the let her in, right?”

Roadhog grunts again. He’s only half-listening, more preoccupied with the idea of babysitting someone visually-impaired. A good number of the ALF had lost their sight after the omnium incident and every last one of them had become useless. It’s one of the reasons he left; no use hanging around when his comrades are standing around staring at walls. But if someone else wants to do that job for him, they’re more than welcome.

\--

The ALF rides high with your aid; as much as Mako is loath to admit it, it’s your addition that turns the tide. You’re the same kind of reckless and so eager to help, uncaring of whether or not you’re put in harm’s way. Driving omnics from your homeland seems to be your life’s calling. You can sabotage vehicles, slip in and out of crowds almost undetected, and prove to be a wholly capable smuggler for everything from messages to explosives when it comes down to it. Who’d have thought that their ace in the hole would be a kid?

It takes time, but Mako gradually comes to value your efforts. His raw power combined with your ingenuity and agility make for a deadly combination, and he admits to himself that maybe he might have been wrong about you. The ALF partners you with him on missions routinely, and it comes to a point where he trusts you more than he does the more veteran members.

He calls you little bird. It becomes your codename once things get tight with the authorities, and it becomes difficult to move about undetected. Your signal is a little whistle you conjure up on the spot, and he knows it’s because you love that codename.

He was a fool to trust you. You were a kid playing war, dressed up in clothes too big for you; he should’ve known things would come to an end eventually.

\--

Roadhog enjoys the view over the ocean, mostly because he gets to see it without Junkrat there to talk over his shoulder or spew crumbs. The quiet and serenity help him clear his head, but lately, it feels like all that head-clearing has given way to reminiscing, to focusing on ghosts that gather at the edges of his consciousness. Overwatch was supposed to be a means of focusing his energy or whatever, of destroying omnics and quieting the vocal memories that linger always at the back of his mind, but the downtime leaves him restless and angrier than usual.

“Excuse me, but do you mind some company?”

Roadhog turns to leave, and instead comes face to face with a ghost.

There, in the doorway, is unmistakably _you_ ; your eyes are glazed and out of focus, burn scars gathered around your eyes and down your cheeks.

You’re the blind recruit. Roadhog is convinced he’s hallucinating, that all of the stressful sleepless nights have finally caught up with him. You tap the ground with your cane, and listen carefully for the noise, before you smile. “You’re pretty big, eh? Had a friend who was pretty big himself. Your heart sounds huge, just like his.”

Roadhog doesn’t grunt. He can’t piece himself back into working order enough to do so. He thinks about that last mission, about the omnium core, about you and all of his mistakes leading up to that point, and he doesn’t know what to think or feel or anything.

Your smile is just as he remembers it in those memories that keep him up at night.

\--

“We’re going to _what_?”

It’s all very hush-hush, meant to keep as little information from leaking as possible. With the authorities eager to pick up members of the ALF, the compartmentalization of information has become paramount. Only a few people know the big picture, of their final plan in its entirety, and he knows that you aren’t supposed to know anything more than your part.

Probably for this reason, he realizes too late.

“Blow the core,” he tells you simply, “get those omnics out permanently.”

Where he expects your normal eagerness there is something like fear. Mako has never seen you like this before. “That’s-- that’ll hurt more than just omnics, Mako, you know that!”

He’s confused. Up until now, collateral damage hasn’t been a concern of yours. “So what, all those people killed by the explosives you’ve set up matter?” He shifts his weight between his feet and tries not to look as agitated as he feels. “This is war, little bird, and people get hurt on both sides.”

You scoff. “There’s a big fucking difference between those dinky explosives we planted on vans and blowing the omnium core. That’s-- there’s enough radioactive material in one of those things to power all of Australia’s nuclear arsenal!” When you begin pacing, Mako becomes restless; how can this bother you so much? You’ve been wholly dedicated to the cause up until this very moment. Why are you second-guessing? “That’ll kill _everyone_ , Mako. There will be nothing left to liberate!”

It’s his turn to scoff, a noise that’s equal parts disgusted and betrayed. “It’s the ALF’s coup de grace. It’ll finish the job that we started.”

You back away and shake your head. “I want no part in this, Mako. If you’re going to blow my home to shit, then you can do that without me.”

Anger flares in him like white-hot fire. All of the things he thought about you initially-- your weakness and naivety, your reckless youth and ineffectual demeanor-- come rushing back. Enraged, he shoves past you, unwilling to put up with your hesitance any longer.

“Fucking child,” he spits, handling you more roughly than necessary, “you were just playing games up until now, weren’t you? Well I’ll show you how a real freedom fighter ends things.”

\--

Now that he knows it’s you, he isn’t sure how to proceed. He knows that your blindness is a direct result of the omnium core; he doesn’t have to hear you tell his comrades the story to know. You’d been right; tampering with the omnium core had destroyed everything. But he doesn’t regret it, _he can’t_ , not when he knows it’d been necessary, had paved the way for Roadhog (had paved over Mako Rutledge). He wonders how you’d react if you knew everything he’d done without remorse, if you’d give him that look of fear you’d given him the night before you’d disappeared, and he hates that he’s still like this, that after all these years apart, he still feels something for you.

You’re still a child. You’re here to help against the omnic crisis and he has this sensation of déjà vu that is both comforting and horrible. You’re older now, admittedly, as is he, but he wonders if you’re still that little girl playing war, if you’ll be unwilling to participate with Overwatch as you had been with the ALF.

You neglect to bring up your history with the ALF. He’s torn between understanding and feeling like you’re trying to avoid taking responsibility for everything you did. You even get along with Zenyatta, which stirs in him this feeling of betrayal that snuffs out every other emotion in him other than bitterness.

It’s what brings things to a head; he doesn’t understand what the hell happened to you to make you this soft, even softer than he remembers.

“You’re still a fucking child,” he snarls, wrapping one large hand around a shoulder, catching you off-guard as you enter your bedroom. Your cane rails him in the knees firmly, enough to actually hurt, and it’s only then that he realizes you’ve gotten stronger, tougher. “After all these years, you’re still playing games.”

It takes you a moment, but when you turn to face in his general direction, there’s a look of recognition in your milky eyes. “Mako?”

“Roadhog,” he corrects venomously, “the man you knew as Mako is dead.”

You nail him again with your cane. It’s starting to get annoying.

“You’re here,” you breathe in something like relief, “you’re alive. I didn’t know what happened to you after the omnium core went off.” He’s looking for that spark of fear and all he gets is smiles and soft edges. It’s utterly infuriating.

“I continued the fight. What did you do?”

You give him the smile he sees in his dreams and memories so vividly.

“I changed.”

The answer catches him off guard; that much is obvious, he thinks, but why it strikes something so deep inside him baffles him. “You were right, y’know. I was just playing. I couldn’t possibly understand what the ALF was trying to do, I was just a kid.” You smile again, relieved. “I’ve waited so long to tell you that, Mako. I had no idea whether I’d ever get to. None of the old members knew where you were or if you were still alive.”

His grip tightens. This isn’t what he wants. He isn’t sure what he wants. He wants those memories of you to leave him alone, he wants something from you to soothe in him the old parts that won’t die. Why he’s still so hung up on a child—no, not a child anymore, you’re not one. The world shrinks to the size you take up in his hand and he finds himself waiting on something desperately.

You move before he can unravel himself enough to find out what it is he’s looking for. You touch him gently with your tiny hands, now callused from years of work and fighting, and you explore. “You’re the same,” you whisper, amazed, “just like I remember you.”

In a fit of something he can’t describe, he rips his mask off and pulls your hands to his face, allowing you to feel the scars there. You don’t look perturbed; instead, you look thoughtful, running your hands along the contours of the burn scarring that makes up the majority of his face now. “We match,” you whisper, pulling his fingers up to the edges of your eyes, over the swollen scar tissue around them and down your cheeks.

Something is about to happen, something that has been years in the making, and it has him on edge. When you kiss him, it’s like the world itself shatters through the glass containing it, and he sees things without the distortion for the first time. He kisses back, shutting the door with his fist against the mechanism to push you up against it and pin you there, and he can’t tell if he’s unnerved by the fact that your eyes don’t close, but instead remain open, with that milky film of burn over them. But your tongue presses against his mouth and the thought ceases to matter, everything giving way to the heat beneath his skin. His tongue forces yours back into your mouth, and you dig your teeth into it in retaliation; the sensation is like electricity down his spine, heading right for his cock, and when you grapple at him like you can’t be close enough, he does his best to pull you closer.

When he pulls away, you look dizzy, eyes even more unfocused than usual, lips lined with drool as you pant with your head leaned back against the door. “Again,” you plead, licking your lips, “more, please.”

He has never once heard you say please. The knowledge that you want this enough to beg has his cock throbbing against your thigh.

He kisses you again, tongue and all, and you drink him down like you’re dying of thirst, grappling at him all over again, feeling, trying to bring him closer, committing the new parts of him to memory in your mind’s eye.

When he pulls away this time, you’re shaking against him, gasping for air with your fingernails digging into his skin. Easily, he lifts you up and over his shoulder, one-handed, and brings you to the edge of the bed to deposit you on it before he sits at the foot, and he’s barely on the mattress before you’re crawling all over him, straddling his thigh and pulling at your blouse, practically tearing through it to get it off you.

The bra you wear is nothing short of _grown-up_ , a stark contrast to the pastel sports bras he’d see through your tank tops back in Australia, and it only serves to ignite him all over again, hands reaching up to grope at your breasts with both hands. You gasp and make this little laughing noise, delighted, and he is smitten (or something like it) all over again.

He’s able to shred through your bra like it’s tissue paper, and he finds that nothing has ever gotten him off quite so much before. You’re still this small thing, so much smaller than him, with clothes he can rip with one hand, but you’re willing and eager to press yourself up against him and feel small.

Something about that really sets him off. He lifts you up like you weigh next to nothing and yanks your leggings and panties off in one swoop, and then you’re naked and soft against him, legs spread wide over only one of his thighs as you rest against him and drop a clumsy hand between his legs to palm his cock through his pants. When he growls, you shiver and lick your lips again, clearly delighted, and it’s all he can do not to manhandle you onto the bed and fuck you right there.

“Up,” he grunts, and you’re lifted as best you can onto your knees for him to slip a hand between your thighs, one thick finger pressed against your slick entrance. You sigh and bite your lip, focusing and using sensation to rock against his finger, bring the tip against your clit and keep it there. You brace yourself against him and move, driven entirely by feeling, and the sight has him grunting all over again.

There’ll be time for more later. He sets you back on his thigh and does his best to undo his pants with one hand, only to have you help him with your little ones. The sight of them on his cock, fingers barely meeting when they encircle the head, makes him dizzy.

“Always knew you were big,” you breathe, “but this is ridiculous.” But you climb over him regardless, attempting to align yourself with his cock through feel alone. He braces you with one hand while the other grips himself to help with alignment, and then you’re dropping down, taking him in all at once, in the kind of foolish eagerness he has come to expect from you. He can’t tell if it’s because of his size or because you’re so tight, but the fit seems almost impossible; your breathing is stilted, body shaking as you lower yourself all the way down to the base, taking all of him in, until the tip of him almost presses past your cervix.

You wait a moment, trembling and drooling, and seeing you this vulnerable makes his heart hammer against his chest, blood pumping erratically in his ears. He never thought he’d be into this kind of thing, but here you are, and here he is, and _fuck_ , if he isn’t turned on.

Your movements are small and ineffective, struggling to gain the leverage and support you need to ride him properly, so instead, he lifts you, hands on your thighs, arms and tits pressed into his belly as he moves you along his cock, and you moan and writhe in an effort to help him along.

“Makoooo,” you whine, tongue out, panting, and he can’t stop himself even if he tries. You take every inch of him without complaining, greedy cunt stretched to its limit in an effort to accommodate all of him, and the sight of you spread out over him is enough to have his control slip from his grasp.

He fucks you in earnest, and you’re just along for the ride, a mass of tension in his hold, winding tighter and tighter until finally, you can’t take it anymore.

“Please, need—wanna come, please, pleasepleasennnaaah—”

His finger finds your clit between your bodies and strokes, hard and without pause, until you’re writhing and clenching and mewling, head thrown back in ecstasy as you come hard, and the added contractions are more than enough to push him over the edge, as well. He comes, and comes, and comes, until you feel it across the insides of your thighs and perineum, and even then, he doesn’t stop. Mako can’t tell if you orgasm twice or if he prolonged the first one, but when he comes down, you’re still squirming and bearing down on him, eyes slid entirely out of focus, mouth hanging open as you wait to come out on the other side.

When you do, everything is quiet, save for your labored breathing. He moves to pull out, but you snap at him, literally, with your teeth, and he leaves you alone, still snugly inside you and apparently there until you tell him otherwise.

“Waited too long,” you tell him airily, “just stay put.”

He decides there are worse places he could be stuck in.


End file.
